by Tanja Pleva
'And where's the catch?' he asked skeptically.
'What catch?'
'Well, what restrictions or conditions are there?'
'None but your signature.'
'Did she have any debts with the tax office?'
Not even now that she was dead would he trust his mother. There had never been anything that had not been associated with a condition. He had got his first car from her, but for driving his sister to piano lessons, to volleyball, to her friends or to fetch her from the discotheque. When he had realized that his own spare time had become very much limited, he had thrown the car keys at her feet and returned to riding bicycles.
When they had been small children, his sister and he had been shunted off to his aunt or grandparents for the weekends so that she would have peace at home. Often he would get some money at that time. Otherwise he had to earn his own money during his school and study years by filling shelves in the supermarket, delivering newspapers, painting, cleaning or baby-sitting.
She had probably accumulated some money from her guys, he thought, quickly reading again the list of his inheritance.
'I can show you the house if you want me to', offered the lawyer kindly.
But Sam was not in the mood for company. He wanted to be alone. He signed the paper and took the alien frames off his nose again.
'If you want to sell the house … my brother is a broker. He knows everyone of standing and reputation here. We would be happy to help you.'
'First I shall have a look at it.'
Sam asked for directions on how to find the house, said his thanks and took a taxi.
The house was located on a small street near the sea. Villas lined the street. Each of them even more glamorous than the next. His mother's house was by far the best one. She had always had taste and style that he had to admit. However, it could hardly be called a house or a villa, for it rather resembled a minor Arabian palace including turrets and battlements. Also its warm red-brown terracotta color distinguished the house from the others, all white villas.
Sam made sure that the house number was the right one. Maybe the lawyer had been wrong? But the key matched. He walked through the house, opened the terrace door and took a deep breath.
Just in front of him, behind a small patch of garden, there was a wide and white sandy beach and beyond that the glittering sea.
Wasn't that what he had wished for? A house by the sea? Indeed, the size had been different. He had imagined a modest little house, not six rooms with six baths and marble floors and so many superfluous knickknacks, such as those swan shaped faucets.
Above the fireplace were some framed photos. He recognized himself and Lily as children. Lily was sitting on his lap, laughing at the camera and exposing two gigantic gaps between her teeth. Those had been happy times. Shortly later, they had moved to Germany.
Sam looked around once again and then called the lawyer. 'How much is this house worth?'
'Between one and two million Euros, I'd think.'
Sam looked unbelievingly around. Was he really in a house that was now his and worth nearly two million Euros?
'It's a dream of a house, isn't it?'
It might be the dream of many, but not his. His idea of a dream looked different. He would have preferred a luxurious two-room bamboo hut with exotic pieces of furniture, a hammock on the terrace that looked out at the sea and all of that standing on the top of a jungle-covered hill.
'Yes, it's … very nice', he said hesitantly. He did not want to appear thankless. 'But I'm not going to keep it. Sell it and call me back.'
Sam took off his shoes and went down to the beach. The icy water washed around his naked feet and the wind, rather strong down there, churned up his hair and tugged at his jacket.
I'm a rich man, he thought. But somehow that did not interest him and it did not make him happy right now. His life wouldn't change. Hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, he gazed for a while across the horizon and then along the long beach. Other than a few birds that left traces in the sand, there was no one. He was alone. Alone with the wind and the churning sea.
He sat down on the cold sand and took Doris Thiel's letter from his inside pocket. The letter to her mother that had supposedly been written on a beach in Rio de Janeiro by her lover, Ernst Ritter, whereby he explained that he would not be able to come back to Germany within the foreseeable future because he was in trouble. Therefore he would have to say farewell to the love of his life. She should not wait for him because it would be in vain.
But it had not been the sea that had been impassable for Ritter at that time. Sam looked at the stamp. The date of the postmark was not legible anymore. But he could tell for sure that the stamp did not come from Brazil.
The humidity of the sand had penetrated his trousers. He got up, patted off the grains and went back to the house. On the way to there, he bent down for a delicate pink shell and just put it in his pocket when his mobile phone inside vibrated.
It was Peter Brenner and this time he had no good news to tell. A pretty nasty affair, he commented about the crime, but certainly the same guy. They had thought he would strike during the conference, instead, he had performed his play three days too soon.
Now you may stop, you need never again to deal with those mad psychopaths. Now you have enough money to retire and do whatever you want to do.
He had always done what he had wanted to do. When had he ceased enjoying his job? The answer was simple. Lina had taught him how easy it was to look down the wrong end of a gun and how vulnerable he was. He was not a superhuman and when had realized this something inside of him had changed. Exactly what concerned him was that he felt like he didn't know himself anymore. Was he still able to stand upright and face the world? He bit his lip until he tasted blood.
Damn, Sam, pull yourself together and hunt down this guy. Even if it's the last case that you will solve.
The Devil´s Breath
Part II
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
1949
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
1952
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
1953
19.
20.
21.
1955
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
1956
29.
30.
31.
1963
32.
33.
34.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
1949
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
1952
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
1953
19.
20.
21.
1955
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
1956
29.
30.
31.
1963
32.
33.
34.
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